


Dreams and Spirits

by sansos



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Literature editor!Akaashi, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Mentions of alcohol consumption in adult characters!, Post-Time Skip, writer!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:27:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansos/pseuds/sansos
Summary: Repeat failures led you to spill your secrets to a stranger at a bar. You weren’t really sure who he was, but for some reason or another, you felt a sense of catharsis in divulging your frustrations over a glass of bourbon.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji & Reader, Akaashi Keiji/Reader
Kudos: 39





	Dreams and Spirits

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a very important friend of mine. 
> 
> Prompt: I hate coffee

The first time it happened, you were probably around twenty-two.

You, fresh-faced out of college, had saw the world through a pair of rose-colored glasses that tinted the world in a romantic pink hue. You had held your freshly minted degree in one hand and your bursting enthusiasm in the other as you slipped the carefully sealed package, the one with each stamp neatly arranged in a straight line by the corner, down the mailbox, watching it with eager eyes as it disappeared down the chute to fall with a single _thud_ at the bottom.

Your daydreams often took you to the edges of the galaxy —to brave the unknown and to explore the uncharted waters beyond the safety net. You sat eagerly in your desk at work —temporary, for you _knew_ with every fiber of your being that you were destined for more— checking your phone with borderline neurotic exuberance, waiting for a call, a text, an email —a sign— from the publishing house to let you know that yes, they _were_ interested in the story you wanted to tell the world.

Because for you, writing was more than just putting words onto a piece of paper. Writing was the way you could reconcile your anger and frustrations, the way you could house the laughter and smiles of fond memories, and the way you felt most comfortable in broadcasting your thoughts to the outside world. While the aspirations of others around you flitted from occupation to occupation, you had held on steadfast to your dream of becoming an author —to one day come across a bookstore with a novel you penned showcased by the windowsill.

And in spite of all of your zealous optimism, the days continued passing by with the sun rising in the east and setting in the west without fail each day. You had counted four weeks, a total of twenty-eight days of which twenty were business days, where you were met with radio silence from the publishing house you had mailed your package to that day.

You had been pouring yourself a cup of freshly brewed coffee when the realization had hit out of the blue, striking with such force that the reverberations of defeat could be felt down to the hollows of your bones. You had instantly found yourself collapsed on the floor with the numbing chill traveling across the length of your spine, your legs having given out from the sheer shock of your failure.

Your fingernails dug deep into the thick skin of your palms, and it was the unexpected wave of pain radiating from your hand that broke through the dulling numbness that had kept you sedated to send you crashing back down to reality.

You sat back up, your legs crossed as you focused on filling your airways with air —to keep the oxygen moving and to let your rational sense regain some semblance of control. You couldn’t break down now. You were only just starting out.

No one succeeds on their first try anyways, you reminded yourself. To have been able to snag a publishing contract fresh out of college on your first attempt was a bit too far-fetched of a dream now that you thought about it.

You brushed the hair out of your eyes and took a deep breath, forcing a wide grin back onto your face as you picked up the pot again to properly pour out a cup of coffee. You took a sip and relished in the entanglement between the bitter and floral notes that the roast had to offer.

That was what life was simply about, wasn’t it? Without failure and setback, how else would we learn to enjoy and appreciate the triumphs that came along? How else would we translate the map of the human soul into the tales of old if we never lived through it ourselves?

You smiled as you walked back over to your desk, setting down your black coffee on the table as you took a seat in your chair.

You would simply try again.

* * *

The second time it happened was probably around 5 months after the first.

With newfound determination and strengthened motivation, you had forced open the word document again, pouring in every last grain of sand from the hourglass to look it over just _one more time_ , spending all morning putting in commas only to take them out in the afternoon. You hounded your friends, your family —even the stranger by the corner of the street— to read the story and to give you their thoughts.

“I love it,” they’d gush with genuine fondness, and the widest of smiles would once again grace upon your lips as you thought that this time —just _this_ time— things would work out and you would be able to cross over to the finish line and prove to your childhood self that this was not just some silly fantasy, that _this_ _was_ _real_.

So when you dropped your package down the chute this time, you allowed yourself to reignite the flame of hope buried deep within your chest that had been sown since childhood —the same flicker of light that had been briefly snuffed out just weeks prior. This time, it would be different. This time, all your hard work would bear the fruits of the harvest.

This time, you’d succeed. You’d finally be able to turn that dream you had protected so fiercely against all skeptics to life and prove to the world that with a bit of grit and hard work, you _could_ turn miracles into reality —that this wasn’t just a random answer messily scribbled on a fifth grade questionnaire asking a mere child what they wanted to do when they grew up.

You had waited five weeks this time before you finally came to terms with the unspoken reality of their decision, because deep down you still held onto the foolish excuse that perhaps they were just busy —that they faced a massive influx of submissions and that it would take time —a lot of time— for them to slowly get to yours. Yet as the hours turned to days and the days turned to weeks, your silly hopefulness was quickly replaced by cynical realism as the meaning behind the silent message they had sent slowly overtook all the pathetic lies you had tried to drown yourself in.

 _Another rejection_.

You scowled as you threw your phone across the room when you refreshed your mailbox for the umpteenth time to find that, once again, you had no unread messages. You sighed, resting the back of your hand against the warmth of your forehead.

You _knew_ you shouldn’t be so upset, but you couldn’t help but feel the familiar crinkle in your nose as your eyes welled up with tears that threatened to spill out no matter which direction you looked in. It stung, and no whispers of encouragement would have been able to assuage the heartbreak —the feeling of your heart having been smashed into a billion fractals by a single stroke of a hammer— that had overtaken your senses.

And then your mind wandered off to the rest of the world —to everyone else experiencing the same situation as you. Only so many books were published in a year, yet it was irrefutable that the publishing house received countless of queries and sample manuscripts in a day. You weren’t alone in your rejection. You were still young, and this was only your second try.

You still had time.

You grudgingly sat back up on your bed, turned over to plant your feet against the cold wooden floors of your apartment, and pushed yourself off the edge to stand back up. With a sigh, you lazily walked over to the other side of the room, crouching down to pick up your phone from the floor. 

You turned it over and back around, lifting it up to inspect each inch of its surface for injuries, and breathed out a sigh of relief when you found none. Perhaps it was a sign to remind you that momentary misfortune need not spell out ascertained doom.

You rolled your neck about its axis, your hands reaching up to massage the knots that had littered the back as you sat down by your desk. It was time to revisit the drawing board —perhaps a change in direction was all that was needed.

You took a sip from the mug of coffee —the one sweetened with a single pack of sugar for once— and dove back to work.

One day your hard work will pay off. You just _knew_ it would.

* * *

You had just turned twenty-four a couple days before when it happened for the seventh time.

You had been sprawled out across the mattress of your bed when a notification popped up on your screen —the sender from the publishing house you had sent your query letter to this time. With a shaky hand, you struggled to click open your email, scrolling clumsily as you squinted at the phone in disbelief of having received such a message to begin with.

This was it —this would be your chance at success!

Your finger quickly tapped on the bolded entry marked by the blue dot on the side, and your excited eyes quickly skimmed through the formalities of the email in search for the suggested time and place to meet-up. You frowned when you failed to find the underlined appointment, and that was when your eyes fell on the five words that had ripped you away from cloud nine straight back down to Earth.

_We regret to inform you—_

You locked your phone shut and reached over to place it face-down on the nightstand. You needn’t read more —anything else would have just been pointless conjecture to soften the harsh blow they had struck you with. You didn’t want to read the apologies spewed out to leave the sender with a better conscience of having dashed your dreams once again for the seventh time in a row.

You rubbed your eyes to evict the temporary tenants that had threatened to spill out in a stream of tears.

No, it didn’t matter. No, this was a good thing —a blessing in disguise. Hardships are what shape us as humans; it is the obstacles we encounter as we journey through life that mold our identity and our character. This was development —growth, even. It is in the steps we take to reach our destination that make the trek worthwhile. It is the challenges, the pain, the suffering, that make living all the more meaningful.

Because talent always came at a price. Because there would be no story to tell if you succeeded the first time —if you were perfect in design. It is at our lowest that we can create our best, infusing each word with the emotions that we are forced to shoulder on our backs.

You couldn’t give up just yet. If you were to be knocked down seven times, then you would simply have to stand up eight.

Bleary eyed with your breath still hitched in your throat, you crawled back over to your desk and turned your computer back on to open up a new document. You looked over at the coffee sitting by your computer, wondering aloud how long it was sitting out for. You took a sniff and shrugged. Coffee was coffee; it didn’t really matter if it was hot or cold, now did it? And besides, you had put not one, but _two_ sugars in this time. If candy could last for a year, then sweetened coffee could probably last for at least two days, right?

You took a sip and returned the mug back down on the table and typed in your laptop password.

You couldn’t give up just yet. Not just yet.

* * *

This time it was probably your nineteenth? Twenty-third? You’ve lost track over the years, and when you really thought about it, it’s not like it really mattered. It was all like clockwork by now: you had it all to a science.

You would submit your package: a freshly written query letter, a newly updated curriculum vitae, and the summary of a brand new story. Then you would wait. You gave it around two weeks for the post to deliver it to the doorstep of the publishing house, and then an additional two seconds for them to promptly toss the package unopened into the rubbish.

Sometimes you would get lucky and they’d give you a ring, perhaps even set up a meeting to discuss with one of their acquisition editors. Though in the end, fate always seemed to rear its ugly head at the moment when you allowed yourself to unlock that faded feeling of hope again, for you had left each and every single meeting with a disappointed smile and an empty apology.

This time it played out no different than the last. An unsuspecting phone call in the middle of the day, the sense of disbelief and utter shock moments after the call, the bottled-up excitement resurfacing and spilling out into the open, and the flame of hope flickering back to life once more. You had sat at the designated coffee shop, your latte with extra vanilla syrup in hand, eagerly checking your watch every minute as you waited, and waited…

And waited.

A vibration in your pocket had clued you in to what had happened yet again, and your suspicions were confirmed when you saw the familiar notification —it was always the same excuse— at the top of your screen. You had then quietly rose from your spot, picked up your belongings, and strode over to the rubbish bin where you threw both your half-empty cup of coffee and your freshly printed manuscript in. You watched as the contents of your cup spilled over the papers, soaking through and pulling the ink along with it along the Earth’s gravitational field until all that was left was the stained husk of the story the sheets once housed.

_Why did you even bother?_

As to how you ended up in the bar you now sat in, you weren’t sure —though it felt almost as if fate had planned for you to have stumbled upon the unsuspecting entrance. It was inconspicuous —neatly tucked underneath a forgotten alleyway in the heart of Tokyo. Gas lamps mounted onto the pillars supporting the basement alongside the row of wax candles lined neatly by the edge of the bar table worked in tandem to dimly light up the establishment.

You couldn’t make out much in the bar save for the labels of the bottles lined up neatly on the shelves behind the counter and the crimson red vest of the bartender, but it didn’t matter. You didn’t want to see much anyways —everything seemed to be so much uglier when they’re brought to light, after all. There were just some skeletons in the closet that you preferred to be kept hidden and out of the reach of the light.

“What would you like today?”

You could hear the patter of coordinated footsteps descending down the stairs ring out, the crisp sound of the sole hitting the wooden surface, followed almost instantly by the dull thud of the heel. You willed yourself to ignore the urge to turn over —it was none of your business who visited the bar, after all. You looked up at the bartender, your eyes skimming briefly over the brands of liquor neatly arranged against the wall with your face deep in thought, as if trying to decide what drink to order.

“An Angel’s Envy. Neat, please,” you recited from memory. The man nodded and turned around, reaching up to the second row for the small, curved bottle, the little light in the room passing through the liquid housed to reveal the golden-brown of the spirit.

You watched with dull eyes as the bartender spun back around to grab a whiskey glass from under the bar counter. He untwisted the cap, and then poured the golden fluid down into the cup from above. You could hear footsteps approach you from behind, probably the same ones from before, but you chose yet again to ignore it —your only concern was the drink that was being prepared in front of you, after all.

A clearing of the throat caught your attention and you glanced to the side from your position.

“Is this seat taken?” the man standing next to you asked in a low voice, pointing at the chair beside you. You shook your head as you glanced back over at the bartender who had since placed the glass in front of you. You thanked him quietly as you took a sip from the glass, letting the alcohol coat the surface of your tongue before swallowing. 

“Is that bourbon?” Your newfound companion leaned over ever so slightly to take a closer look as you nodded, your hand holding the edges of the glass to lightly swirl the whiskey against the sides.

The man hummed approvingly as he took off the coat he had on —you couldn’t quite make out the color, though it was the lightest color in his ensemble— and draped it against the back of his chair. He readjusted the sleeves of his dark sweater as the bartender walked over to stand in front of him, his red silk vest peaking out from underneath the darkness.

“What would you like today?”

The man pointed a finger at the glass in your hand. “I’ll have that as well, please.”

The bartender turned around again, repeating through the same ritual as before as he worked to prepare the order. You heard a rustle from beside you, and from the radiance emitted by the candle light, you could make out the faint outline of the man in the black sweater’s face looking down at the drink in your hand.

“You didn’t want ice in yours?”

You shrugged as you took another sip from the glass. “I’d prefer not to dilute it,” you answered, finally giving in to the man’s attempts at conversation.

“You know your stuff.”

“You develop a preference over time.”

He reached over to grab the glass, nodding slowly at the bartender as he carefully sat back down on his seat and reached up a hand to readjust the collar of his turtleneck sweater. The floral notes of what must have been his cologne found their way slowly outcompeting the sharp burning aroma of alcohol, with the tranquil and soothing scent of lavender mixed in with the creamy, buttery nuances of iris. And then there was something sweet yet classy —seductive, even— that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

You weren’t quite sure who this man was —you could barely see his face— but you couldn’t say that you minded his company. It was comforting —healing almost.

He took a sip of the alcohol, letting the oxygen roll in to accentuate the notes in the drink as his tongue danced along the roof of his mouth to taste the flavor profile. “Fruity with some bitterness to it. Chocolate perhaps? Ah, the sweetness from the maple syrup is a nice touch.” He took another sip and nodded with a hum. “The vanilla ties it all together elegantly.”

 _Vanilla._ That was the scent. You inhaled sharply once more, the warm and comforting scent of vanilla dancing in step with the fruity pear-like sweetness that settled at the back of your palette.

“I dreamt a dream, you know,” you mumbled as you lifted your glass up to your lips. Perhaps it was the effect of the alcohol, the reverberations of the walking bass line from the soft jazz playing in the background, or maybe it was the feeling of peace that the man seemed to radiate both in fragrance and in aura. You weren’t sure what it was, but something about the atmosphere had coaxed the words out of your mouth.

Your companion looked on as you took another sip. “And so did I. What was yours?” he asked as he raised a hand to signal the bartender over, pointing a finger at your drink to indicate for seconds. 

You looked down at his half-full glass of bourbon as your index lightly traced the rim of your now-empty glass. “That dreamers often lie,” you said with a bitter smile on your lips. Your eyes met his, the reflection of the dim lights unsheathing his stormy blue eyes amidst the darkness.

The bartender slid to you another glass as you nodded your head in thanks, then held the drink up at the man with a silent whisper of thanks before taking a sip. He laughed as he returned the gesture and raised his own glass to his mouth, letting the alcohol burn against his throat. 

“But in their dreams they do dream things true.” He placed down his glass next to yours. 

You leaned your head back, your eyes now closed as you drew in a breath. “You quoting Shakespeare on me now?” 

He laughed, the sound of his voice ringing and oscillating against the glassed collection on the shelves. “You set it up perfectly, you know,” he reasoned with a small shake of his head, an amused expression on his face. “But I’m curious. This dream of yours...” 

“This dream of mine is dead,” you answered plainly as you opened your eyes and stared admiringly at the neatly arranged shelf of liquors and spirits in front of you. “Hopeless and meaningless, nothing save for childish, foolish fantasies. The kind that killed Romeo and Juliet.” 

His lips twisted in a knot as he rested his head in his palm, his arm supported by the mahogany table of the bar counter. “The time they spent together was rather romantic, I’d argue,” he mused as he watched your expression sour at his words. 

“They were married for what, three days?” you sneered with a roll of your eyes, your nose wrinkled in distaste. “This just proves how dreams are nothing but a lie. They don’t hold up in the long run. Those two ended up dying fighting for theirs.” 

“You sound like you’ve had some dreams crushed.”

“Crushed doesn’t even begin to describe it,” you answered in disdain.

“I’m listening.”

“I’d love to,” you grumbled as you slammed your glass down onto the surface of the bar table. “Young, naive little (l/n) (f/n) thought that with nothing but sheer passion and tenacity, they’d be able to make it big in the writing world as long as they persevered.” You slumped down against the table, your head buried in your arms with one hand raised up as you cracked each knuckle successively. “How foolish, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t think it’s foolish,” he softly uttered. You laughed, holding your glass up against the light of the candle to admire the amber-bronze color of the spirit sloshing against the sides of your cup.

“I wanted to be a writer.”

“And your pitch?”

You stopped your glass midway to turn over to him, and gently balanced the cylindrical glass onto the countertop. You hadn’t expected for him to have wanted to hear, but you found it a pleasant surprise nonetheless.

“It’s not that great,” you chuckled, absentmindedly tracing the rim of the glass with your finger. “I got rejected twenty-three times so far.”

You heard the cloth of his sweater slide closer to you on the table as he leaned in, the creamy and sweet scent of his cologne slowly enveloping you without your notice, as if enticing you to divulge more.

“I’d like to hear it still.”

You glanced over at his silhouette, your eyes tracing the outline of the hair that seemed to blend in with the darkness of the atmosphere so well. You knew absolutely nothing about the man in front of you, other than the fact he could quote Shakespeare from memory and that he smelled like vanilla, iris, and almonds, but your gut nudged at you to spill it all to him anyways —every single plot point, the twists and turns embedded within, the character development you had planned in the foils you had set up.

“That sounds…” The man paused for a second as he searched through his lexicon. “Enchanting, to say the least.”

You chuckled as you slid off your chair, your feet planted firmly on the ground as stood in front of him. “I’d agree with that word choice, I think,” you chuckled with a small shake of your head. “Though enchanting isn’t enough to pay the bills. My day-job does.” You fished out a crumpled banknote from your bag, sliding it against the counter to the bartender with a grateful nod.

You slung your bag back over your shoulder and you reached for your coat, folding it in your arms as you walked towards the staircase. You looked back as you stepped under a gas lamp, your face now clearly illuminated under its gentle glow, and smiled at your companion. “Thanks for listening, by the way. It was nice just telling someone about it.”

“I’d love to see your book published one day,” he called out, twisting his torso around with a firm grip on the back of his bar stool. 

You looked at where his face must have been and snorted obnoxiously on instinct. You raised a fist up to cover your smirk out of politeness as you tried to recollect yourself, and looked up at him again. “I’m afraid that day will never come.” You smoothed out the lapels of your coat and readjusted the strap on your shoulder. “But thank you nonetheless.”

You spun around on your heel and walked over to the wooden staircase, your hands shoved deep into your coat pockets.

_If dreamers often lied, then it was about time you learnt to tell the truth._

You looked down at your phone, finding a text message from your friend letting you know that they had managed to arrange a sitting with an acquisition editor in the next week.

You dropped the device back into your coat pocket and kept walking, setting foot back onto the busy streets of Tokyo.

One last time. You’d try one last time.

And then you’d lay your dream to rest.

* * *

You ended up counting the number of submission-rejection cycles you had gone through after that day in the bar with the stranger. This would mark your twentieth attempt at realizing whatever ashes of dreams remained, the eighth revision of the story you had divulged, and the fifth year since you had left school equipped with nothing but dreams and foolishness.

Because only fools dared to dream, and only dreams would bequest a fool. Those that were able to reach for their goals never dreamed —they planned, and you had planned to fail once more.

“It’s not like it’ll work out this time anyways,” you grumbled to yourself as you swirled the silver spoon in your drink, watching the foam at the top dissolve into the white milk of your vanilla steamer. You looked down at your wrist, a slight grimace gracing the edge of your mouth as you realized that you had arrived and ordered much too early.

Perhaps you should have considered yourself lucky —you were meeting with an actual person this time, at least. There would be someone to bear witness as you laid whatever shards of hope remained to rest, someone to deliver the same old eulogy of “I’m sorry” and “please try again” with all the acting talents in their arsenal. At the very least you would have a proper sendoff, you thought.

You looked around at the scenery surrounding you as you heaved out a sigh. You would have preferred it if the meeting didn’t occur at a coffee shop _again,_ though _._ It brought about too many painful memories of missed encounters and abandoned promises of meeting on another date.

“(l/n)-san, please forgive me for my lateness. I was under the impression we wouldn’t be meeting until 15 minutes later.” 

Your glance shifted from your watch up to a pair of gunmetal blue eyes peaking behind a pair of black wire frames. You frowned; that brown coat he was wearing seemed awfully familiar... 

“Is that a latte? I took you for a black coffee kind of person, frankly,” he laughed as he took off his coat, folded it in half, and draped it over his chair before taking a seat. 

“It’s a vanilla steamer…. Just vanilla and steamed milk,” you answered hesitantly. You picked up the spoon resting against the edge of the saucer and poaked at the bubbles on the surface. “ **I hate coffee** ,” you quietly explained as you watched as the man raised his hand up to signal for the server. “There’s enough bitterness in my life already.”

He looked over at you, his hand still raised up in the air as he chuckled. “Fair enough. Should have guessed vanilla, though.” You raised an eyebrow, and he smiled with a small shrug. “Judging by your drink order at the bar”

You watched as the men gestured at the menu in front of him to the server by his side, a look of confusion and hesitation knitting your brows closer and closer together. 

“You’re...” you started, grasping at what courage you had to complete your sentence as he folded up the menu and gave a curt nod before handing it to the server. “You’re the acquisition editor I was supposed to meet today?” 

“My name’s Akaashi Keiji.” He leaned over to pass you his business card with both hands. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you again.” You nodded quickly as you accepted the card, running your fingers along the raised surface where the ink sat. “I already passed your manuscript to the publishing house after our conversation the other day. They’d like to set up a time with you to discuss the contract.” He smiled as he reached a hand out to offer you a handshake. “I guess we can say that some dreams actually do come true, now can we?” he laughed. 

You smiled as you reached a hand out to return the gesture. 

“I suppose we can.”

* * *

**Bonus**

“How does tomorrow sound?” he asked, swiping through the calendar app on his phone. You placed your cup back onto the saucer as you fished for your own device through your bag and nodded, absentmindedly chewing on your lip.

“I think that should work.”

Akaashi’s thumbs quickly flew across the screen of his phone, and within a second, the familiar _ping_ of your email notifications and the slight vibration of the alert demanded your attention back onto the screen in your hand.

“Perfect, I sent you the invite just now,” he said as he locked his phone and placed it by his elbow, his arms folded up in front of him as he offered you his full attention. “Oh, but I’m afraid that we’ll have to get you a new editor.”

You frowned, sending your response to the invitation back to him as you mirrored his actions.

“And why’s that? Aren’t we meeting tomorrow?”

Akaashi tilted his head with a mischievous smile as he stared back at you.

“It wouldn’t be very professional for an author to go on a coffee date with their editor, now would it?”


End file.
